The Power of Bondage – part 1

So much insomnia. So, damn much, insomnia. My mind is a prisoner of a sadistic physical trainer who insists that my thoughts run one more lap and then another until I have lost count of how many while my sight becomes as blurry and strained as the line between my sanity and the elusive sleep that I am chasing.

Has it been a week of this? Two? Three? What is wrong with me?

When I do fall asleep, I am awakened by the feel of his firm cock in my hand. Startled and confused, I wake up to realize that it was a pillow in my hand and I am just as alone in my waking state as I was when I fell asleep. This is madness. This has never happened to me before. This is torture.

I trace the lines of the rope as it travels along his body. He is a young man, eager and full of adventure. His cock drips as it bobs in demanding cries for my attention, anyone’s attention, any attention at all. Arms and legs immobilized, he is a human gift I have wrapped in binding rope to deliver to myself. He is not the love I dream about but I am also nothing more than a story for him to live through and brag about later. We use each other on terms that we have both silently agreed to and understand. Respect and appreciation for each other’s presence in this moment is the currency we have offered in trade for this opportunity.

He watches me carefully as I slowly move around him like a predator circling its prey. Drool escapes the corners of his mouth as he bites down on gag hindering his empty protests. He makes a noisy, slurping noise to try and unsuccessfully draw the saliva back into his mouth. Even in this humiliating position, his conceit insists on him looking like a photograph of perfection instead of a sloppy, drooling puppy.

I caress his inner thigh, squeezing firmly where it joins his hip with my hand resting under his tightened balls. I rest my hand here and let my hand send its warmth into his flesh. My free hand caresses the outer side of his thigh and slides forward between his thigh and belly into the creasing space of his hip. I stop in the soft tangle of his pubic hair and run my fingers through it, teasing the root of his cock as it twitches in response. I look up and he meets my gaze. His eyes flash dark and daring, summoning me to use him as I dare. He is not smiling but nearly snarling with hunger. Time stands still in bondage. A moment can feel like an eternity in limbo. Desire becomes a very long rope that dangles us over a cliff of longing without any sign of when it will break and set us free. In this suspended moment, his lip curls back aggressively as he flashes teeth at me, staring into my eyes searching for a weakness, a clue, a response, or my very soul.

This is still a game for him yet. He is still full of desire and dare he thinks he can win with the command of his good looks and sheer will. If this were any other moment and I were any other woman it might be true. I want what he hasn’t discovered in himself yet. Even I don’t know what that is yet but we will both know what it is when I find it.

I crawl up to be closer to him and hover over him with both of my arms planted on either side his head so I can look down at him. Like an animal, I lean in and smell his hair and the space along the side of his neck. I am exploring the natural, naked truths of him through his scent and I won’t be denied. I bring my face close to the side of his and moan in his ear before I lick and gently suck on the earlobe. He gives himself to the sensation in his hunger for touch, for satiety, for movement toward an orgasmic release. He doesn’t want me yet though even if he would say otherwise. Right now, he only wants what his body wants and his body doesn’t care who provides it the reward it seeks. We have time.

Correction. I have time. And I have him. And I want him to be consumed with desire for the pleasure that only I can bring him. He is young and his lack of life experience doesn’t give him the vocabulary he needs to be able to speak my language in ways that matter to me. He is beautiful though. Wrapped elegantly in rope and erotic intentions, he is a living sculpture that demands to be seen and adored with both eyes and hands.

Breathing softly into his ear while licking the edge, his breathing deepens and his jaw tightens. He is still struggling against restraint. Still struggling with patience and being truly, passively receptive. Learning to receive means learning to trust. An open hand extended must be open, and extended as an act of trust. In rope and on my bed, his mind must be open and extended as an act of trust to receive the mysteries hidden in this experience.

“I want you,” I whisper huskily into his ear as I punctuate the sentiment with a gentle kiss just above his ear. I pull back so I can fully see his face again and smile slightly before lowering myself slowly to kiss him on the corners of his lips. A barely audible whimper escapes him as he tries to adjust his body’s position but to no avail.

I lean in again and begin to kiss the nape of his neck and his jaw. My hair falls over him like a dark curtain separating him from the rest of the world while the warm heaviness of my breasts press against him softly.

I have always loved bondage but for reasons that aren’t obvious to other people. Thoughts of how this will unfold has finally crowded out the insomnia that has been tormenting me for days or weeks for so long I cannot even remember how long it has been.

I can almost feel the warmth of his flesh and the smell of his hair in my imagination. Men are so much more delicious when they understand and appreciate restraint.

More to come.